The desire of a devil wedged in the liverAnd the desire to dissolve this craniumWill remain the blind man bornIs the disorder on groundNeither the neurons nor the belly solveIn the same way the pages and the ages do not resoundOnly the drop of shade light on trackWill wash the veins of stressMelodies of an arranged formStill ways of carvingThis savour in peace to feelColors of a glance to dress itselfAnd forms to be translatedIn the single breath of happinessWell with wood rootsGreen of a space glanceBy the ages the back is illuminatedAnd to return to post errors